


Red in Tooth and Claw

by Shiny_n_new



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Captivity, Dubious Consent, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:34:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4463909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_n_new/pseuds/Shiny_n_new
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen and Samson had been lovers in Kirkwall, once upon a time. Now that Samson is general of the Red Templars, he wants Cullen back, willingly or otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt on the Dragon Age kinkmeme: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/12449.html?thread=48402081#t48402081
> 
> At some point in my life, I am going to write something besides filthy prisoner smut. Today is not that day.

Under other circumstances, Cullen thought he might have liked the Emerald Graves. The massive trees, the hills and valleys, and the small caves all reminded him of the wilderness outside Honnleath. Under the current circumstances, though, he would have greatly preferred a desert or flat grasslands. At least then he’d be able to see where the damned archers where.

“They knew we were coming!” Adaar growled, sending a fireball crashing into the Red Templar barreling towards them.

“We’ll have Leliana sort it out, assuming we don’t die first,” Cullen shouted back, keeping his shield up to deflect the arrows aimed his way. The force behind them made the metal rattle violently on impact, another painful reminder that the Red Templar archers were more than human now.

“Pretty big ‘if’,” Varric muttered. He was crouched behind Cullen, taking advantage of the cover to launch volley after volley towards the surrounding Red Templars. They were holding their position for now, with the safety of a rockfall at their backs, but one wrong move would end that quickly.

It should have been a simple mission. The Inquisitor had crushed the Freemen of the Dales, and now all that was left was luring out their Red Templar contacts. Cullen wouldn’t have come at all, except for Carroll. Knight-Captain Carroll, now. He had been leading the Red Templars in the Emerald Graves, and so he would be the Inquisition’s target for this final push to control the area. Cullen felt that he owed it to the man Carroll had been to make sure his death was quick.

But someone had tipped Carroll off, and the Red Templars had come in force, ready to stage an ambush. The Inquisition had forces in the area and Fairbank’s men had pledged their support, but none of that mattered at the moment, with those allies miles away and the Red Templars drawing ever closer.

Cullen glanced at Adaar, wondering if she had any more miracles left in her.

The grappling chain that wrapped around his ankle came as a sharp and horrifying surprise, and Cullen barely had time to register the weight before he was being yanked off his feet and dragged. His head hit the ground with a sickening thud, and through the ringing in his ears he heard Varric’s terrified, “Oh shit! Curly!”

Still seeing double, Cullen tried to kick, to bend, to do something to dislodge the chain. But his right arm was still strapped into his shield and he wasn’t enough of a greenhorn to drop his sword, which left him clawing clumsily and uselessly while he was being dragged. Suddenly, the world was composed of green shadows and Cullen realized with horror that he had been pulled into the treeline.

When he finally came to a stop, Cullen rolled to his feet with a snarl, swinging his sword wildly at the red shape reaching for him. It darted back and as his vision cleared, Cullen saw that it was not alone. He was surrounded by Red Templars, nearly twenty strong. Some looked almost normal, some were misshapen monsters, but all of them wore the flaming sword emblem across their chests. He’d called them all brothers and sisters, once.

One stepped forward, and it wasn’t until he spoke that Cullen realized that they knew each other.

“Well, well, well,” Carroll said, smiling hideously, “if it isn’t our very own Cullen Rutherford.”

Carroll was at least a foot taller then he’d once been, maybe two. Jagged lyrium crystals poked through the skin of his arms and shoulders, looking disturbingly like a dragon’s spikes. His skin was an unhealthy shade of red, as if he’d received a very bad sunburn that wasn’t healing. He seemed to _glow_ in the worst possible way; through the open visor of his helmet, Cullen could see that his pupils were bright red.

“Carroll,” Cullen breathed, unable to keep the sorrow from his voice. He raised his shield, painfully aware of the Templars at his back. He could hear the sounds of battle, too far away to be of any help to him. At least he would die on his feet, fighting to the last.

“We’re taking you,” Carroll said, hand resting on the hilt of his greatsword. “I know someone who will be _very_ happy to get you as a present.”

Cullen snarled, fingers tightening on his sword. He wouldn’t be taken alive, he wouldn’t let them-

_purple light, so thirsty, thirstier than he’d ever been, whispers all around him, something scratching at the walls of his mind_

-he would not be tortured again.

Carroll gave him a knowing look. “Don’t fight, Rutherford. You’re a little outclassed.”

As if on cue, the ground shook slightly. Cullen turned his head slightly to see a Behemoth lumbering up, completing the circle of Red Templars around him. He felt the bile rise in his throat, horror shuddering up his spine at the thought that this massive crystalline golem had ever been human. It stared down at him, breathing out in a pained rasp, and he had to fight not to gag.

His gaze flitted between Carroll and the Behemoth before his shoulders slumped. He lowered his shield just a little. “All right.”

Cullen waited a beat, two, and then lunged for the Behemoth. He stayed low, rolling between the tall arch of the beast’s legs. The move took him out of the circle of Templars, and for a brief, wild moment, Cullen hoped that he had escaped. The Behemoth was fast, though, faster than something so giant and twisted had any right to be. Cullen felt jagged claws close around his shoulder and then he was being _picked up_ , lifted into the air like a recalcitrant child. He swung his sword as best he could, trying to attack the wrist that held him, but the Behemoth threw him to the ground so hard that Cullen’s vision went black.

He passed out for only a few moments, but the scene he woke up to was no better than the one he’d left behind. They had taken his sword and his shield, stripped off his chest plate and vambraces. A Templar was tugging sharply on his left pauldron, and that was enough to make Cullen hiss and attempt to scuttle away, despite the searing pain in his head (and entire body, if he was honest).

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Carroll sighed from somewhere above him. “Just bind him and be done with it, we don’t have all day.”

And so it was that Cullen was tied up and slung over one of the larger Templar’s shoulders like a sack of potatoes. The sting of humiliation was an almost pleasant distraction from the reality that he was going to be tortured to death if he did not escape. He waited for the Templar to put him down; they’d have to unbind his feet to make him march or ride, and that would be his moment. But the Templar did not put him down. She didn’t even seem to notice Cullen’s weight. The entire Red Templar unit was moving at a light run, despite the fact that they were all in full armor, and as they kept up that pace for one mile, then two, Cullen felt his heart sink. 

Escape would have to come when they reached camp.

The Templars kept up their steady, inhuman pace for an incredible distance, long enough that Cullen’s head was pounding with trapped blood from being upside down for so long. The sun had begun to set when they finally came to a stop, and Cullen glanced quickly at its position to get his bearings. He’d need to know which way to run.

“This way,” Carroll said to the Templar holding Cullen, his voice excited. Cullen had to close his eyes, overwhelmed by the memories of Carroll playing profoundly stupid pranks in the barracks at Kinloch Hold. This was all so wrong. He should never have come.

Cullen took in what he could of the Templar camp, observing to the best of his abilities while dangling upside down from someone’s shoulder. Even if what he saw didn’t help him escape, Leliana might find it useful. It was clearly meant to be a temporary space, lacking the heavy fortifications of a more permanent camp. That would make running easier, at the very least, and might help the Inquisitor’s forces if they staged an attack.

If the Inquisitor was even still alive.

Cullen shook his head, forcing the thought from his mind. Adaar was a Qunari; Cullen had seen her shrug off hits that would have left humans staggering. Varric, Cassandra, and Solas were just as good at surviving. They were fine. They were _safe_ and they would be looking for him.

Carroll was leading them to the central tent, so presumably Cullen was being turned over to whoever was highest-ranking and still alive in the Emerald Grave. Cullen steeled himself to come face-to-face with another red, warped reminder of his past. It wasn’t getting any easier. The interior of the tent was warm and dark, the Templars filling it with a disturbing red glow.

“Look what I have for you!” Carroll crowed.

The world lurched as the Templar carrying Cullen let him slide forward off her shoulder. His legs were bloodless and numb, and they buckled the second he hit the ground. Cullen was still trying to roll himself over when he heard a chuckle that froze him in place. His eyes shot forward, disbelieving. It couldn’t be, it wasn’t possible-

But there was Raleigh Samson smirking down at him, his grin wide and toothy. “And it’s not even my birthday.”

Cullen pulled himself into a sitting position, blood roaring in his ears. He was shaking his head, he realized, short, sharp movements. “You can’t be here.”

“Funny thing is, I wasn’t expecting _you_ to be here,” Samson said, lounging in his chair like it was a throne and Cullen was some penitent brought before him. It reminded Cullen uncomfortably of the Inquisitor sitting in judgement. “I figured the best case scenario is that we might capture your Lady Inquisitor, since the bloody ox-woman apparently never learned to delegate. But this? This is so much better.”

Cullen knew he was gaping, but he couldn’t make himself stop. Nothing could have prepared him for seeing Samson again, especially not like this, tied up and thrown at his feet. His heart was beating too fast, too frantically, and Cullen wondered for a brief and dizzy second if he was going to pass out.

“I see you’re so happy about this little reunion that you can’t even speak,” Samson said, smug as a well-fed cat. He stood and Cullen jerked backwards without meaning to. “Tell you what, Cullen. We’ll go finish mopping up what’s left of your Inquisition, maybe collect a few friends to join you, and then you and I can have a nice chat.”

He wanted to say something cutting, something that would hide how badly rattled he was, but every word died in his throat. The only noise that escaped was a small, pained grunt as Samson reached down to pat him on the cheek.

“Carroll, make him comfortable, yeah?” Samson said, clapping the Templar on the shoulder before slipping out of the tent.

“Ha, that’s the happiest I’ve seen him in weeks,” Carroll said, hauling Cullen roughly to his feet. 

“Carroll,” Cullen said, swallowing to steady his voice, “Carroll, please, we know each other, we were friends-”

“We were.” The humor dropped from Carroll’s expression startlingly quickly, leaving behind something dark and angry. He fisted his hand in the front of Cullen’s shirt, dragging the smaller man forward until they were nose to nose. “And then you turned your back on us and all of your vows. You’re a traitor, Rutherford, and everyone here knows it.”

“ _I’m_ the traitor?” Amidst all the chaos, Cullen could apparently still feel incredulous and offended. “You’re the ones trying to bring down the Chantry!”

“The Chantry betrayed us!” Carroll said, nearly yanking Cullen off his feet. “They chewed us up and spat us out like rubbish, and you’re too stupid to do anything but crawl at their heels like a dog!”

Carroll was nearly vibrating with fury and Cullen wondered if something very violent was about to happen. With his hands and legs bound, fighting back wouldn’t be a possibility. But Carroll just took a heavy breath out (it smelled strangely sweet, like he had a mouthful of candy) and released Cullen’s shirt. He gave Cullen a rueful, unkind smile. “I’d beat you bloody, but I think the General wants to do that himself.”

Cullen was dragged to a small supply tent and bound to the pole in the center. Carroll and the other Templars lumbered out (with Carroll shooting a smug, “ _Behave_ ” over his shoulder), leaving Cullen alone. _Thank the Maker._

He brought his knees up to lean his aching head against them, trying to find some calm center to cling to. Calm was hard to come by, though, especially when all he could see when he closed his eyes was Samson’s face and the changes the red lyrium had wrought. Samson had always had a narrow face and sharp features, but now he seemed so much sharper. It was like the lyrium had eaten away the all of the fat that had rounded out his face, stripping away the man and leaving a weapon behind. Even his skin was different; Cullen had never seen him look so pale, so sallow. 

Not that it mattered. Samson might look sick, but he was brimming with power. Cullen had read every report he could get his hands on and they all agreed: Samson was practically a force of nature now. He had always been a strong, capable warrior, but now that he was using red lyrium, he was nearly unstoppable in single combat.

_Enough_ , Cullen ordered himself sharply. There would be time to reminisce and drown in his own sorrows later, when he was safely out of Red Templar hands. He began struggling against the ropes holding him in earnest.

It took a good fifteen minutes of squirming before he managed to work his right hand free. His wrists was rubbed completely raw and was even bloody in spots, but that was a small price to pay, all things considered. Cullen made short work of his bindings and stood cautiously. Outside, he could hear nothing but the usual noises of a camp, but he knew Samson wasn’t foolish enough to leave Cullen’s tent unguarded. There would be soldiers at the entrance, and Cullen wasn’t going to take them unarmed. But the nice thing about a tent was that any side of it could be an exit if someone was desperate enough.

Cullen dropped to his knees at the back of the tent and began pulling the thick fabric up. He just needed it to stretch enough for him to slither out—there. He squirmed forward on his stomach and began crawling. He was halfway out of the tent when an arrow buried itself in the dirt an inch from his shoulder.

Cullen froze, eyes darting upwards. Two Red Templars were watching him, weapons drawn. For a few fraught seconds, Cullen wondered if perhaps he couldn’t finish worming his way out of the tent and fight them. But then one of the Templars shouted, “He’s crawling out from this end,” and Cullen knew that this escape attempt was well and truly doomed.

A group of four Templars rounded the corner and yanked Cullen the rest of the way free. They dragged him around the side of the tent, barely reacting to his struggles, and Cullen realized that he had an audience. What had to be a three dozen Red Templars were all standing there, waiting. At the head of the crowd was Samson, leaning against his sword and smirking at Cullen. _This was all just a game,_ Cullen realized. His guards shoved him forward and then closed ranks around him, leaving Cullen and Samson surrounded by a wide circle of Templars.

“That took longer than I thought it would,” Samson said. “That new desk job of yours making you slow?”

“What was the point of this?” Cullen snarled, anger keeping him from going still and wordless. Anger was familiar, at least. He and Samson had fought bitterly, viciously, in the days before Cullen had left Kirkwall. “Don’t you have an Inquisition to be destroying?”

“Word arrived right before you did, actually,” Samson said, still slouching against his sword like this was nothing but a friendly chat. “Your Inquisition’s abandoned you.”

Cullen refused to let himself react. Retreat made sense, it had been a tactical decision. They would come for him. They had to. Rather than voice any of that, though, Cullen just asked, “So, who sold us out?”

“Now that would be telling.” Samson straightened, pulling his sword out of its sheathe with a practiced, easy movement. 

Cullen was in a defensive stance before he even got a look at the sword. Whatever Samson was playing at, he wanted no part of it. The greatsword gleamed in the fading sunlight, the light grey metal shot through with flecks of…flecks of red.

_No._

He was shaking his head before he even realized it, the words forcing themselves from his mouth. “That can’t be. That’s impossible, that’s-”

“Certainty,” Samson said, twirling the massive sword easily. “Glad you recognize it. I thought it was too lovely to be wasted on a lunatic. Corypheus agreed.”

“That sword _killed_ Meredith,” Cullen said. He was half-consciously backing away from it, wanting to be nowhere near the thing. He remembered the way it had glowed in Meredith’s hands, remembered the faint whistling noise it had made as it passed over his head just a few seconds shy of decapitating him. That sword had shattered into nothingness even as Meredith was turning to stone. How could Samson have it now?

“Meredith killed Meredith.” Samson tilted the sword and the red veins in it seemed to pulse. “She’d have burned herself down sooner or later. The sword just made it sooner.”

“And the fact that it’s made of the same lyrium that drives people insane and turns them into monsters is just a coincidence?” Cullen snarled. He had never fully made peace with Meredith’s fate. Yes, she had been paranoid and bigoted and happily brought out the worst parts of him. But she deserved a chance for redemption, not to die screaming in terror and agony as the lyrium petrified her body from the inside out.

A growl rose up from the Templars surrounding him. They apparently did not appreciate Cullen’s critique of the effects of red lyrium. Samson just smiled, small and rueful. “You always did have so much loyalty to people who wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire. Meredith, the Chantry, your little Inquisition.”

Cullen bared his teeth at that, a hot flare of rage going through him like a wildfire. “Did you bring everyone out here to hear you lecture me, or are you going to do something with that sword?”

That was enough to make Samson chuckle, his smile curving up sharply to show his teeth. “I aim to keep you until we can grind the Inquisition into the dust, but I know you too well to think you’ll be a good little prisoner just because it’s in your best interests. You never accept something until it’s beaten into you.”

A sword and shield were thrown at Cullen’s feet, the clang of metal making him twitch. His eyes darted to Samson, who was still smiling.

“So I’m going to beat it into you.”

Cullen stayed still, unwilling to commit himself to something that couldn’t possibly end well. “No. Find someone else to play games with, Samson.”

Samson’s smile took on a mean tilt. “What was it you said in that little message to your soldiers? Oh yeah, I remember.” In a passable imitation of Cullen’s accent, Samson recited, “ _The fiend who attacked us at Haven had the strength of a dozen men. Samson has the training of a templar and all the power of red lyrium at his command. For those who did not see it firsthand, he is as dangerous as any demon. Perhaps worse. Treat him as such._ ” Samson pressed a hand to his breastplate, right above his heart. “I’m touched, Commander. You’re afraid.”

Cullen didn’t budge an inch, even though he wanted to grab Samson by the shoulders and _shake_ him until he learned just who had given the Red Templar that note. “I’m not nineteen anymore. That won’t work.”

Samson laughed at that, a real laugh that made something in Cullen’s chest tighten painfully. “So it won’t. How about this, then? You beat me and I let you go.”

_Damn._ That was an offer that Cullen could not look away from easily, even if he knew it was just a mind game. A mind game that he was very unlikely to win. But even the slightest chance of escape was enough to make hope flare in his chest, harsh and bright. “You’re lying.”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

Something wounded and angry in Cullen wanted to hiss out, _‘Don’t worry so much, Meredith will never find out,’_ and see how Samson liked having his words repeated back to him for a change. But that threatened to open up the festering sore of emotions that Cullen had been keeping contained since Kirkwall. Ripping off that scab would be enough to bleed him out entirely, and Cullen didn’t have the luxury of wallowing in grief. Especially not with three dozen Red Templars circling him, looking for weaknesses.

Not taking his eyes off Samson, Cullen knelt and strapped the shield to his arm. He picked up the sword and gave it a few practice swings to judge the weight of it. Templar sword, Templar shield. 

Maker, he was going to regret this.

Wordlessly, Cullen fell into a fighting stance, sword raised in preparation. Samson stepped into range across from him, sword similarly raised. No shield, but with a greatsword the size of Certainty, that made sense. Cullen’s eyes flicked across Samson’s strange armor, noting the spikes of red lyrium that jutted up through the metal and glowed faintly. He doubted those were decorative touches.

“We go until you say stop,” Samson said, beginning to circle Cullen.

Cullen didn’t bother rising to the insult; instead, he just swung at Samson. It wasn’t intended to hit, just to announce that the fight had begun in earnest. Samson dodged easily, never losing his wolfish grin.

For the first few minutes of the fight, they seemed as evenly matched as they had been in Kirkwall. They circled, both looking for weaknesses, both launching the occasional feint to test the other’s reaction. Cullen remembered the last time they’d sparred, two days before Cassandra had come to him with her offer. He felt a tangle of unnamable emotions rise up in his throat, threatening to choke him.

Samson suddenly slammed his shoulder against Cullen’s shield, the force behind it nearly knocking him off his feet. Stunned, Cullen staggered back a few steps, eyes wide. Samson just smirked at him and said, “Keep your head in the moment, boy.”

After that, the fight began in earnest, and it became terribly clear how outmatched Cullen was. Whatever Samson’s armor was, it had practically eliminated the need for a shield. Cullen’s sword glanced off of it time and time again, never even leaving behind a scratch on the black metal. Every blow of Samson’s, meanwhile, made Cullen’s bones vibrate. It was inhuman, and before long Cullen was purely in defensive mode, huddled behind his shield and trying desperately to strategize. If he hadn’t been alone, if he had someone to distract Samson-

Samson grinned, his armor suddenly glimmering with sinister red light. The ground beneath Cullen ruptured, knocking him off his feet and into the crowd of Red Templars. Rough hands grabbed him, and for a breathless, terrible moment, Cullen thought they would tear his armor off. He remembered Kinloch Hold, remembered demonic claws ripping at his armor, and his terror made him thrash desperately. But the Templars simply threw him back into the ring, shouting out encouragement to their general.

He risked a glance behind him and saw spikes of red lyrium jutting out of the ground. Could Samson control lyrium? That shouldn’t have been possible, and yet there it was, glinting mockingly at him as it continued to grow from the earth. Cullen turned his attention back to Samson, trying not to show how rattled he was.

“You can always give up,” Samson said, his tone almost gentle.

Cullen dug in his heels, raised his sword, and braced himself for impact.

The next few minutes passed in a blur as Samson batted him around the circle like a cat with an injured mouse. It was all Cullen could do to keep his shield up and stay on his feet. The bruises on his shield arm were going to reach the bone, and he hadn’t scored a single decent hit on Samson. He was just too fast and too powerful. The smart thing to do would have been to just put his shield down and surrender already, but Cullen’s head was pounding with rage and blood and pain. _Let Samson fucking work for it._

When the end came, it came quickly. One moment, Cullen was on his feet, teeth flashing and vision swimming. The next, red lyrium had shot up from the ground and tripped him again, sending him crashing to his knees. Samson was relentless, darting in with a backhand that left Cullen sprawled on the ground seeing stars. Then Samson was on him, the weight of his armor breathtakingly heavy. He dug his knee into Cullen’s shield arm and physically ripped the sword out of his hands, tossing it over his shoulder like it was nothing. Cullen was still fighting, struggling and clawing and trying to bite. 

Samson _laughed_ , the sound breathless and fond, before punching Cullen right in the face. He did it again, and then once more for good measure. It wasn’t anywhere close to his full strength, because that probably would have snapped Cullen’s neck, but it was enough. Cullen’s vision was swimming in and out of blackness, and he could taste blood in his mouth.

“Enough,” Cullen slurred out. He coughed, spat blood into the dirt, and added, “I surrender.”

“Good boy.” Samson leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead, uncaring of the crowd of Templars around them, and if Cullen hadn’t been so punch drunk, he’d have blushed scarlet. “Let’s get you back to my tent.”


	2. Chapter 2

As Cullen was dragged towards Samson’s tent, he tried to catalogue his injuries. Nothing broken, thank the Maker, but he knew he was going to be a patchwork of bruise, fractures, and sprains come morning, and that was assuming that Samson did nothing to add to his injuries. Quite a big assumption, especially considering Cullen wasn’t sure if he could stop himself from provoking the man. He would try not to, but…well, he knew himself and he knew Samson.

Inside Samson’s tent, the Red Templars dumped Cullen into a chair. Cullen was grateful for the chair, and for the table next to it, because otherwise he wasn’t sure he could remain upright. With the adrenaline of the fight wearing off, every movement hurt. He forced himself to sit up straing, glaring daggers at Samson as he entered the tent.

“Get a mage in here,” Samson called over his shoulder before letting the tent flap close behind him, leaving the two of them alone. He dropped into the chair across from Cullen and watched him, the force of his red, red eyes almost painful. Cullen bared his teeth.

A mage entered the tent, probably Tevinter. He actually looked a little like Dorian, and that thought made nausea twist in Cullen’s stomach. As the Venatori came closer and reached forward, Cullen snapped at him. His teeth clicked in the empty space where the mage’s hand had been seconds ago. The look of offended surprise on the Venatori’s face was fantastic.

“Careful, this one’s a biter,” Samson said, clearly entertained.

The mage glanced between them, indecision written on every feature. “I’m not going near him then.”

Cullen laughed at that, even though it made the pain in his head spike.

Samson just rolled his eyes. “Get over there, you bleedin’ coward. Cullen, hold still or I’ll hold you down.”

The choice between having some strange mage healing him and having some strange mage healing him while being held down wasn’t a tough one to make. Cullen extended his arm towards the Venatori, glaring at him all the while. He still had to turn away when sparks of healing fire lit the mage’s hand; even a decade after Kinloch Hold, Cullen wasn’t comfortable actually seeing magic.

“Be nice to the mage, Cullen,” Samson said, leaning on his elbows. “Isn’t that your whole thing, now, Ser Reformed Templar?”

Cullen just glared, grunting as a torn muscle in his shoulder knit itself. He repressed the instinctive urge to look, knowing that the sight of magic sinking into his skin would only panic him.

But Samson was determined to get a response. “How do your little Inquistion mages feel, knowing that the big, bad Knight-Captain of the Gallows has his eye on them?”

“I think at present they’re a little more concerned with the darkspawn magister who is trying to destroy the world,” Cullen replied. He hissed when the healing magic abruptly became painful, the energy no longer a controlled stream but a crashing wave.

“Watch your tongue, cur,” the Venatori snapped, his fingers digging into Cullen’s arm. “You speak of your new god.”

There was the sound of a dagger being unsheathed, and both Cullen and the Venatori looked over to find Samson casually cleaning his nails with a very large knife. Idly, as if they were in the midst of a friendly conversation, Samson said, “Might watch yourself, magister. I believe I’ve been pretty clear about my thoughts on manhandling the prisoners.”

“He speaks out of turn, and with disrespect,” the Venatori replied, although his magic receded back into a warm, healing glow.

“He’s Fereldan, what do you expect?”

“You really think he’s a god, don’t you?” Cullen asked the Venatori. He knew—well, Adaar had told him plainly enough that she wasn’t sure if she was the Herald of Andraste. She wanted to believe, but her time in the Fade was nothing but a green blur of fear. That hadn’t stopped the Inquisition from spreading rumors far and wide that Adaar was The Chosen One Come to Save Us All. He’d assumed it was the same for Corypheus, with his inner circle used to using propaganda and lies. The idea of them being true believers, of _Samson_ being a true believer…it wasn’t something he liked to think about.

“Enough,” Samson said, tapping the hilt of the knife against the table. “Alcimus, is he healed?”

The mage dropped Cullen’s arm like it was distasteful. “Yes. He’ll be left with some bruising and pain, but no substantial damage.”

“Good. Get out.”

The Venatori wasted no time obeying, leaving Cullen and Samson alone in the tent. Cullen refused to look away; he wasn’t going to be cowed just because Samson had every advantage here. A slow, predatory smirk curled across Samson’s face the longer Cullen stared him down.

“Missed you, Rutherford,” Samson said, sliding his knife back into its sheathe. “Nice to see your head hasn’t gotten any less hard. You look good.”

“Wish I could say the same.”

Samson’s expression was either a sneer or a very rude smile. “Now, now. If you’d taken as much red lyrium as me, you wouldn’t even be half as handsome as I am now.”

Hearing him say it out loud made something in Cullen’s chest hurt. He wanted to double over, to shy away from it. He thought of the bodies on Dagna’s work-table, bones and cartilage turned to glowing red crystals. How much of himself had Samson already lost to the red lyrium?

Samson tilted his head. “Speaking of lyrium,” he reached into a pouch hanging at his waist and drew out a painfully familiar vial, glowing with soft, tempting blue light, “when was your last dose?”

Cullen jerked away from the table as if Samson had just produced the Inquisitor’s severed head. When he spoke, it came out as a strangled moan. “No.”

He had been so caught up in every other terrible thing happening that he had managed to forget about lyrium. And now he was sitting across from Samson, who had changed in a million terrible ways, a small vial of lyrium glowing between them like a Maker-damned metaphor for their entire relationship. He needed to handle this delicately, but he wasn’t sure he was capable of delicacy when it came to the ravening, greedy hunger inside of him. Andraste’s ass, he had alerted the Inquisitor to the severity of his problem by accidentally throwing his philter at her in lieu of a normal conversation.

Samson was ignorant of the cause of Cullen’s visible panic and simply rolled his eyes. “Relax. I haven’t spiked it with the red stuff. With my luck, you’d turn into a Behemoth on your first dose and I’d have to deal with you rampaging through camp.”

Well, that was a horror that Cullen hadn’t even considered. He wished it was enough to distract him from the sheer terror he felt staring at that little blue vial. If he took it now, every sleepless night and agonizing day would be for nothing, his progress reversed like an hourglass being turned over. But oh Maker, how he wanted the lyrium, perfect and blue, soothing away every ache and pain and jangling nerve. He could practically taste it on his tongue, burning gently against his lips.

His eyes darted up to Samson. If Samson knew that Cullen was trying to quit, would that make things better or worse? Would the man he’d loved respect his decision? Would the Red Templar general see the value in crippling the Inquisition’s commander with addiction and self-loathing? Would the addict in him support Cullen? Would the sometimes petty, spiteful man who had lived in the gutters of Kirkwall because of that addiction want to force Cullen back into that same desperate cycle? There were too many variables, too many unknowns. They were both so different than they had been in the Gallows.

In the end, Cullen decided that it was better to be forced than to give in. At least then he might be able to look Cassandra in the eye after this was all over. “I’m not taking it.”

Samson’s face hardened. “Let me explain something. I’m not going to watch you waste away because you’re feeling stubborn. So if you refuse to take your meals or your medicine like a good boy, I’ll shove them down your throat.” He reached out to tap the vial gently. “Lyrium in particular can get into the human body through pretty much any orifice. Don’t tempt me.”

“No,” Cullen said, taking a steadying breath, “I mean I haven’t been taking lyrium at all.”

Samson went completely still. When he spoke, his voice was flat and disbelieving, as if Cullen had just claimed he could turn into a griffon. “What?”

Delicate, this needed to be delicate. But Cullen had never been delicate, hadn’t the faintest clue how to be as diplomatic as Josie or as subtle as Leliana. He knew how to fight and strategize. He knew Samson, or at least, knew the man he used to be. That would have to be enough.

“You were right,” Cullen said, before the silence could become unbearable. “You were right about the Chantry. About how it uses Templars and cripples them and throws them away when it’s done with us. I don’t want to be a Templar any longer. I refuse to be. And so…and so I’ve stopped taking lyrium. Because you were also right about it being a leash. I want to slip the leash.”

Samson was still, his expression hard and inscrutable. “How long have you been off of it?”

Cullen swallowed, because by all rights that should have been a fairly innocuous question. But the tension around Samson was unmistakable. “Since a week after the explosion at the Conclave.”

“Bullshit!” Samson slammed his hand against the table with enough force to crack the wood. “The longest I ever went without a dose was seven weeks, and I was almost dead by the end of it! And you’re sitting here claiming that you’ve been off the dust for ten months? You fucking liar!”

There was the temper that Cullen had hoped would stay dormant. He felt an instinctive urge to back away, but he knew that would only make things worse. Holding up his hands in the universal gesture of ‘please calm down’, Cullen said, “You were living in the streets. You weren’t getting enough food, everything was dangerous and dirty. Even if you’d wanted to quit, you couldn’t have. Things are different for me, I’ve been-”

“That’s right,” Samson snarled, leaning over the table and into Cullen’s space, “things are _different_ for you. When _you_ decide you want to be nice to the mages, that bitch Meredith very thoughtfully dies and you get yourself a nice promotion. When _you_ don’t want to be a Templar anymore, you get a cozy bed and three square meals a day, and everyone can coo over how _noble_ you’re being. Lucky, lucky you.”

Cullen closed his eyes and shook his head. “Sam, please-”

“You would never have survived what I did,” Samson hissed, fingers digging into the battered table so hard that Cullen could see the permanent indents they made. “You’d have been crawling back to Meredith on your hands and knees, licking lyrium off her boots and begging for a fix.”

A smart person would have stayed quiet, would have let Samson’s rage exhaust itself, but Cullen had a very deep well of anger when it came to his former comrade in arms, and he’d never claimed to be a genius. With deliberate intent, he leaned upwards and forwards, putting himself nearly nose to nose with Samson before he asked, “Is that what Corypheus makes you do?”

Samson backhanded him so hard that he went flying, landing in a crumpled heap near the entrance of the tent. The world spun and his face throbbed, but Cullen had barely dragged himself to his knees before Samson was on top of him. He flipped Cullen over, pinning the commander’s arms beneath his knees. The lyrium vial was in his hand, and Cullen shrieked in some combination of fear and fury at the sight of it before he clamped his mouth closed.

“Open your mouth, you little bastard,” Samson growled, reaching for Cullen’s face. “Open up!”

 _No, NO!_ Cullen wanted to bite, wanted to claw at Samson’s eyes, wanted to slither under the bed. Anything that would keep the burning blue lyrium away from his mouth. There were tears in his eyes, he noticed distantly, blurring his vision until Samson was nothing but a black and red shape above him. Useless, his body finding one more way to betray him.

Then Samson’s fingers were in his mouth, yanking his jaw open with enough force to send sharp pain shooting down Cullen’s neck. He started screaming, instinctive horror making him cry out even though there was no one who could possibly help him.

Samson jerked back suddenly, yanking his fingers out of Cullen’s mouth. Cullen wasn’t sure what caused this reprieve, and so he continued screaming and trying to squirm away. Shockingly, impossibly, Samson actually let him, rolling off of him in a fluid motion. Cullen scrambled away, not stopping until his back hit the edge of Samson’s cot. Crouched on the floor, he panted and stared at Samson with wide, furious eyes. Maker, but he wanted a blade right now.

The lyrium was leaking out of its upended bottle, soaking slowly into the ground. Cullen could _smell_ it, like the ozone before a lightning strike, and his nostrils twitched. He tightened his jaw until his teeth ached and flicked his eyes towards Samson.

Samson wasn’t looking at Cullen. Instead, his gaze was on the lyrium, the puddle losing its vibrant color as it soaked into the ground. Cullen was ready to throw himself under the cot if Samson moved. The Red Templar just stared at the ground, like the lyrium was whispering some hidden message to him.

Which, shit, maybe it was. Red lyrium sang, who knew what blue lyrium could do to those sufficiently addled?

“I’ve never known anyone who didn’t die from the withdrawal,” Samson said abruptly, his voice a bit rough but otherwise calm.

It took a few swallows before he could force himself to speak. “Neither have I. But…I never knew anyone who tried to quit. Everyone just-”

“Learned to live on less,” Samson finished, and Cullen didn’t doubt that he was thinking of Kirkwall, how the smell of lyrium mixed with the odor from the fishmarkets and the ocean.

“I’m going to try,” Cullen said, still crouched on his heels and prepared to flee. As if fleeing would get him far. “I am never going to take it willingly.”

“Big words,” Samson sighed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “There’s no kicking the habit, Cullen. Can’t say I don’t like seeing you being idealistic again, but lyrium gets into you like a fishhook. No yanking it out.”

“You don’t know that,” Cullen said, and when Samson tried to interrupt, he spoke over him. “You _don’t_. You can’t be sure of it because no one is! So let me try. And if…if it gets bad, if I seem to be dying, then you can pour it down my throat and say you told me so. Deal?”

It was absurd, bargaining like he had any kind of power in this situation at all. But Samson had stopped when he could probably have shoved the lyrium vial directly down Cullen’s throat. Beneath whatever the red lyrium had done to him, the good man who wanted to help people was still there.

Hope kindled in Cullen’s chest, stupid and bright.

“Fuck me, you can never just make things easy,” Samson said. “Fine. Deal. You sodding idiot.”


End file.
